Rather than writing another piece of fiction, I thought I’d try my hand at doing a real experience post for the most recent edition of Kink of the Week. It’s not something I’d usually do, but the prompt – Cutting/Tearing Off Clothes – is something that’s close to my heart. It’s not something that happens often, cos who the fuck can afford that, but clothes tearing has smashed into my sex life in significant ways a couple of times in the past, so I’ve decided to try my hand at sharing those real-life experiences. So pull up a chair and let me tell y’all a true story…
At the time I met my first boyfriend, the only thing missing from my sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle was the sex. But, with a minimal amount of encouragement from me, he soon remedied that. God, even though he was selfish and not very attuned to what she needed, inexperienced, teenaged Ella thought he was the gnat’s nuts. She really couldn’t get enough of him.
He was an unsavoury character. A stereotypical bad boy who would take you home and fuck you then look at you the next morning like he’d never seen you before in his life. He was five years older than me, and looking back I think maybe he was a bit embarrassed to be sleeping with a girl fresh out of school, so he tried to interact with me as little as he could in front of others.
My first experience with tearing off clothes in the name of sex was with this guy.
At the end of one of many drink and drug-fuelled nights, he decided we weren’t waiting until we got back to his place for sex. We were partway through an icy, slushy winter, but that fool wanted it al fresco. His place of choice was a massive park not far from where he lived. One of those parks that lock their ten feet high gates as soon as the street lights come on between October and March.
I was – and still am – five feet two. The four-inch heels I was wearing didn’t make those wrought iron gates seem any shorter, nor were they particularly conducive to climbing. But still, he wanted me over that fucking gate, so he decided to tear the bottom from my ankle-length dress to make it easier for me to get a leg up.
It wasn’t a sexy move. It wasn’t even a well-executed one. I was in public with my arse hanging out the bottom of a ripped dress, so drunk I was seeing double, and with a man who was so focused on getting some, he aggressively insisted that I would not impale myself on spikes or fall to my death if I tried to scale the gate, and that if he could climb over it … look, it’s easy I’ll show you… then I could, too.
I threw a proper teenaged tantrum. Stamping my feet, grunting like a pig snuffing for truffles, whining like an air raid siren. I didn’t tell him why I was miffed, though. I just stalked off, leaving him yelling at me through the bars. As far as I was concerned, visiting time was over, lol.
The thing was, I didn’t know the area he lived in, cos I’d only ever seen it from the back of a taxi. I wandered around the place and ended up in the arsehole of nowhere, looking out over a desolate wasteland that was separated from an industrial estate by a train track. It was dark, cold and wet, and that’s where he caught up with me.
I tried to hold on to my huff, but I was so relieved to be saved before I died of exposure and starvation (too drunk to turn around and see the housing estate behind me, remember?) that I let him kiss me out of my shitty mood. Things got very hot, very fast, and before I knew it my knickers were gone, his hand was doing fun things, and I was clinging to his shoulders, praying that it was too dark for the people on the passing train to see my come face. I needn’t have worried, though, because, as usual, he stopped before I actually came.
It was after that almost-orgasm that he decided he was ready to fuck. But he was as drunk as I was, and couldn’t find the top of his jeans cos his shirt kept flapping in the way. Hot and impatient, I grabbed said shirt and ripped it from collar to hem. Buttons went everywhere, my hands went straight to his button-fly, but a loud noise made me stop dead with half my hand buried in his wiry pubic hair.
“My fucking shirt! For fuck’s sake, do you know this cost me forty quid?!”
It would be nice to be able to say we erupted into shared laughter then carried on with getting our knees dirty, but we didn’t. Because, even though he’d intentionally torn my dress not fifteen minutes before, he was angry. Yep, he was serious. He called me a destructive little animal, then said we had to go because he was cold.
So, in that instance, tearing someone’s clothing in a fit of passion resulted in more than just a physical chill.
But the next time clothes tearing happened…well, it was a different experience altogether. That’s pretty much down to the man involved. No, it wasn’t the wrong’un who introduced me to sex, but rather the right’un who showed me how good sex can actually be. Yep, my lovely Fella.
We were drunk (yeah, there was a lot of that going on in my younger days), and after a lot of heavy petting in the back of a taxi, we were crazy hot for each other, too. I’d listened to the Fella’s dirty whispers all the way home. He’d told me all the things he was going to do to me once we got in, and I didn’t doubt him for a second. When the front door closed behind us, I pretty much threw my head back and waited to be ravaged. But nothing happened.
I opened my eyes and he was just standing there, a few feet away from the door. It was dark, but there was enough light coming in through the windows for me to see the fucker was smirking at me. God, I was incensed! In a moment of lust induced Hulk-like rage, I slammed him into the door and, just like I had done with boyfriend number one, I ripped his shirt wide open.
Ugh, my belly flip on realising what I’d done was horrible. I held my breath and waited for him to go nuts, but he didn’t. He just exhaled noisily and returned the favour, not stopping until my top was in two or three bits at our feet and my tits were spilling out of what was left of my bra. I pulled off his shirt then tore off his t-shirt, leaving him wearing just one sleeve and a stretched-out collar.
Then I pulled a couple of buttons off his favourite jeans in my haste to get them off, pushed him over (well, shoved him until he lay down for me, really) and, once he’d torn a hole in my trousers and ripped the gusset from my knickers, I fucked him. It was glorious, and we ended up sleeping on the floor in the front room with the dog cos we were too exhausted to even attempt the stairs.
The following day while I cleaned up our mess, the Fella jogged down the stairs and gave me a filthy grin. “What you did last night,” he said. “That was well fucking hot.”
That handful of words made me realise that boyfriend number one’s actions had made me scared to express my passions when they were at their most intense. It made me think about all the times I’d held that feral part of myself back from the Fella for fear that it would scare him. That it would (as I think it did my ex) make him feel that I’d emasculated him because I’d stepped outside of my usual, passive role and taken charge. My ex’s anger had flipped a switch in me and, for a while, it turned off my wilder side.
But that one instance of tearing my way beneath the Fella’s clothes because I was too turned on to hold myself back, just to discover that he actually liked it…it flipped the switch back on again. I was still my subby little self, but I didn’t fear the animal in me anymore, because I knew that, should she ever feel like coming out again to ruin a few of his shirts, he wouldn’t shame her. He would be ready and waiting to give as good as he got.